


Sharp and Glorious Thorn

by elysiumwaits



Series: Tumblr Prompts/Fics [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Mentions of canon character death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 10:27:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19788991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elysiumwaits/pseuds/elysiumwaits
Summary: 5 times that Draco said something too quietly for Harry to hear, and 1 time Harry finally heard him. Or, after the Second Wizarding War, Draco falls in love with Harry during a friendship he didn’t really expect and doesn’t really think he deserves.--Some irrational part of him has the thought that it was Potter’s idea for Draco to go back to Hogwarts, and look where not listening to Potter got Draco. So it would only make sense, then, that if Draco is to put what little faith he has left in something… perhaps it should be Harry Potter.So Draco goes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Tumblr prompt - Things You Said Too Quietly
> 
> Listen, at this point in my life, I’m not even sure what minute details actually happened in the books, in the movies, or in my head. So forgive any mistakes - I’m far too lazy this evening to go wrestle the books off the shelf and consult. I also haven’t written Harry Potter in many years, and I don’t have a beta for it anymore, so you know. Take it with a grain of salt.
> 
> I hesitated to post this before I technically finished it, but since the message was anonymous I wanted to get something tangible up before I took weeks to come up with how big this fic might actually turn out to be. It will be 6 chapters total, no idea about the final word count (probably around 15k or less). 
> 
> Please take note that tags will be added with chapters, and I am not sure yet if the rating will change to Explicit, but the rating will change accordingly if that happens.
> 
> Come hang out and send prompts at elysiumwaits.tumblr.com.

_ One - At the Trials _

When the war is over, Draco is adrift. 

His mother goes back to the Manor, his father goes to Azkaban, and Draco almost goes with him. He’s resigned to it, actually, completely convinced that he will be spending the rest of his natural life behind bars. He was a Death Eater, for Merlin’s sake. And though he may feel overwhelmingly guilty about it, though he may regret it with every breath that he draws in, he is still the one who let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. 

He’s the reason people are dead. He even had to cast that spell a couple of times to prove his loyalty, and that’s only a fraction of the blood that covers his hands.

So yes, Draco expects Azkaban. His trial comes, and he expects it to be quick, a condemnation of all of his crimes and the awful things that happened because of them. He can see the professor above the table in his mind’s eye the whole time he waits, can see the Headmaster falling from the top of the Astronomy Tower. 

So many dead in the Great Hall. 

It’s a blur, really, the trials - hours bleed into each other, days mixing together. And then, near the end, Potter shows up and speaks, shocking everyone  _ including  _ Draco. In all honesty, Draco will never be able to recall exactly what Potter said that swayed the final judgment. It isn’t until later, when they’re unlocking Draco’s shackles and telling him he’s free to go, when he’s numbly dressed himself in the clothes his mother has brought for him, when he’s stepping outside to follow her quietly to the Apparition point that he realizes exactly what it is that Potter’s done.

He wants to be angry, wants to ask exactly who Potter thinks he is, remind him that Draco is not someone to  _ save _ , not someone worth rescuing. But really, all he can manage to feel is tired and more than a little lost as he follows his mother sedately.

And Draco blinks and suddenly, Potter is  _ there _ , standing and speaking to Narcissa. She’s got her hand on his arm, like they’re familiar somehow, and Draco has very obviously missed something during his time in Azkaban. The corridor is empty, Draco notices as he looks around, certainly no one to pay any attention to the sheer absurdity of the moment, and he wonders almost hysterically if he’s gone mad.

“It was the least I could do,” Potter is saying when everything starts actually making sound again to Draco, instead of just white noise around him. “I wouldn’t have made it out of the Forest alive if it weren’t for you.”

Narcissa arches an eyebrow at him. “I had my reasons, Mr. Potter, and none of them are as altruistic as you seem to think they are. And in any case, it’s a Life Debt. It isn’t as though you are acting entirely selflessly either.”

Potter grins. He looks younger, Draco thinks wildly, where before he’d always looked as though he were holding up the world itself on his shoulders, frowning far more often than he ever smiled. In a way, Draco supposes he  _ was _ . Now that The Dark Lord is gone, there’s no mysterious prophecy to hang like the sword of Damocles over Potter’s head.

“I think loving your son is a good enough reason,” Potter says, and glances over at where Draco is standing, silent, and watching the exchange. “And I would have come with or without the Debt.”

Something in his expression seems to change - softens, if it’s  _ possible  _ for Potter to direct any kind of gentle emotion at Draco, and Draco wonders just how bad he looks to make Potter look at him like  _ that _ . He tries to summon something of himself from their days before it all went to Hell a year or so ago, and finds he has absolutely nothing left of his childish arrogance to shield himself with now.

He blinks again, and then Potter is standing before him, closer now. “Malfoy,” he says, but there’s no malice, no disgust. An acknowledgement, that’s all it is - almost  _ friendly _ , but that feels a little like reaching.

“Potter,” Draco says automatically. He grimaces slightly at the sound of his own voice, rasping and hoarse from disuse.

“Hogwarts is opening for an Eighth Year,” Potter says, in that strange tone where he doesn’t sound like he hates the very air Draco breathes. “You should come back.”

Draco pauses and waits entirely too long to respond, trying to process the words and remember how to use his own. In his defense, it has been a very long year or so, and to be completely honest, he’s not even sure what the date is or who the current Minister is, or of anything at all beyond the fact that The Dark Lord is dead, Potter is alive, and the war is over.

“I don’t…” Draco starts, stops, and then starts again, holding onto a modicum of composure by a thin thread. “I hardly think that many would be overjoyed to see me.”

“Well,” Potter says, and it seems as though he’s choosing his words very carefully. It’s almost like Draco is fragile to him or something, like Potter  _ cares _ . Draco doesn’t really know how to deal with that, and so he pushes it away to be dealt with later or possibly never at all. “You’re the one who gets to make that decision, I suppose. But Ron’s going into Auror training straight away, and Hermione wants to spend time with her family, so…” 

Potter pauses then, and it feels like he’s looking for something in particular when his eyes sweep across Draco’s face. Draco doesn’t really know what he sees, hasn’t been in front of a mirror in… well, he’s not sure if it’s been weeks or months at this point.

“It’d just be nice to have someone around who won’t believe in all that ‘Saviour of the Wizarding World’ nonsense.” And then, for some reason that Draco can’t comprehend, Potter is giving  _ him _ , of all people, that crooked grin. 

Draco glances around the mostly-empty Ministry corridor, then back at the door they had come out of not too long ago. There’s another trial going on already, but Potter’s not in there testifying on behalf of  _ that _ Death Eater. Instead, he’s standing and talking to Draco, after just having essentially handed Draco his entire life back.

“I guess I’ll have to, then,” he finds himself saying, in that drawl that he’d perfected sometime during Sixth Year. “We simply can’t have people thinking you’re some kind of  _ hero _ . Merlin only knows what that will do to your ego.” 

Potter laughs, surprised and joyful. He reaches out and claps a hand to Draco’s shoulder, and the contact echoes through Draco like a lightning bolt, live and electric. “I knew you were in there somewhere. I’ll see you at the station, Malfoy.” He turns just enough to nod to Narcissa, and then he’s brushing past Draco and striding down the corridor, away.

Belatedly, Draco realizes what he forgot to say. “Thank you,” he tries, but the words stick in his throat and come out a whisper, and Potter doesn’t hear them at all.


	2. Chapter 2

_ Two - On the Hogwarts Express _

Going back to Hogwarts is not easy. In fact, it may very well be the hardest thing that Draco’s ever done. 

He almost doesn’t go at all, packs and unpacks his trunk more times than he can count. What decides it in the end, though, is the fact that the Manor doesn’t feel like home anymore, doesn’t feel at all safe in the way that it should. There are ghosts and memories around every corner, it seems, entire rooms that Draco can’t even enter because of the atrocities that once went on behind their doors. 

Narcissa mercilessly redecorates, strips every last reminder of The Dark Lord away that she can find with the determination of a woman possessed. She lets the Ministry come in and round up all of the Dark artifacts that they can find (save for, she admits to Draco once and only once, a select few in the Vaults). She blasts portraits away, throws open curtains to allow sunlight into rooms never touched by it before, and comes to a new accord with the House Elves that haven’t fled. 

She’s a new woman, free in a way that Draco has never seen her before, a whirlwind of personality and opinions and decisions. He pales in comparison, he thinks - she is flourishing away from the iron rule of her husband, away from the insanity of her sister. There is no one left, now, to keep her as anything less than the formidable witch she is, no war looming over them, no constant threat of torture or death.

Draco, on the other hand, just… exists. He doesn’t know where to go without the bruising hand of his father to guide him, doesn’t know how to build himself a path in a world that doesn’t and  _ shouldn’t _ trust him. He wants to follow his mother into the light that she seems to have found, but he’s afraid of being forced back into the shadows should he step out of line.

In the end, with September drawing ever closer, Draco packs his trunk one last time and locks it with a flick of his new wand (bought from Ollivander despite the roiling guilt in Draco’s stomach when he had looked at the man). The Manor doesn’t feel like home, doesn’t feel safe. Some irrational part of him has the thought that it was Potter’s idea for Draco to go back to Hogwarts, and look where  _ not _ listening to Potter got Draco. So it would only make sense, then, that if Draco is to put what little faith he has left in something… perhaps it should be Harry Potter.

So Draco goes.

He pretends not to care about the sneers and the stares that he gets at King’s Cross. He hadn’t expected to see a friendly face, of course - he’s only spoken to Pansy a handful of times, and it’s been stilted at best as she struggles to manage her family in the wake of the war. Blaise is a bit easier, refuses to be anything less than Draco’s friend, but he’s in France to avoid ‘the worst of it,’ as he’d said. Goyle is in Azkaban, and certainly wouldn’t consider Draco a friend now - Draco had, after all, told the Ministry quite a lot about the crimes of one Gregory Goyle. And Crabbe, of course, is dead.

In fact, Draco Malfoy is the only Slytherin Eighth Year to return. Everyone else is dead, in Azkaban, or in hiding, either from Aurors or the Daily Prophet.

Draco knows what they’re saying. He can feel the eyes on his back, can hear the whispers barely concealed behind hands. The younger students give him a wide berth, even as they stare at him in something akin to terror. The older students, the Sixth and Seventh Years, glare openly and palm their wands. The Eighth Years, handful of them that there are, go silent and watchful as he walks past.

He finds an unoccupied compartment and sits. He knows what they saw when they looked at him, he access to a mirror now - he’s lost weight, he’s gone from pale to pallid, his hair isn’t slicked back as it used to be, hanging soft around his face instead. His robes cover the Dark Mark still on his arm, but they all stared at where it would be like they could see through the fabric. They see a murderer who got away with it, Draco knows. 

He holds his wand in a shaking hand, just in case. He may deserve a hex or a hundred, but if they want a villain, he’ll play the part and give as good as he gets. Draco won’t throw the first curse, but he won’t play-act at being the defenseless victim either.

He shouldn’t have come.

The compartment door slides open. Draco’s on his feet in an instant, wand at the ready, heart pounding with a curse on his tongue. 

“You got a new wand,” Potter says, like the wand in question isn’t pointed at his throat. “That’s good. I felt a bit bad still using yours.” 

Draco stares and lets his wand arm be nudged to the side as Potter sidles into the compartment and closes the door behind him. After a moment’s hesitation, far too long to be socially acceptable, Draco sits back down, gingerly. He shouldn’t have come, he thinks again - the train’s not even left the station yet, and he’s already had his wand at Harry Potter’s throat, almost cursed him.

Potter doesn’t say anything about Draco’s silence. Instead, he sits, sprawls across the opposite bench and turns his face to look out the window. That floors Draco - he’s just had his wand  _ at Potter’s throat _ , and Potter is looking away from him like he just  _ knows _ that Draco won’t attack him. For Merlin’s sake, Draco’s wand is  _ still in his hand _ .

“How are you  _ alive _ ?” Draco asks, a lot more indignantly than he’d intended. 

Potter turns back, striking eyes wide and confused behind his glasses. Understanding seems to dawn, and he almost looks resigned. “It’s a long story. D’you know what a Horcrux is?”

“ _ Of course _ I know what a Horcrux is, that’s not what I’m talking about,” Draco snaps. He’s heard rumors and such about exactly how Harry Potter survived the Battle of Hogwarts, and none of it matters at all because Potter is, as Draco has always maintained, an idiot. “Your instincts are  _ dismal _ . Why didn’t you disarm me?” Potter doesn’t respond, instead choosing to stare at Draco with an unreadable expression on his face. To be fair, Draco doesn’t give him much of a chance to answer. “I thought the Disarming Charm was your chosen  _ modus operandi,  _ given the overwhelming evidence that it’s the only spell you know. Honestly, Potter, you won’t survive  _ one single day  _ as an Auror!”

“It’s not the only spell I know,” Potter says when Draco stops talking. 

Draco throws his hands up. “You didn’t  _ use  _ it! Or any of the other spells you claim to know.” He rolls his eyes, gearing himself up to continue his rant.

“You’re not my enemy, Draco.”

The sharp words die on Draco’s tongue. He feels pinned by the way that Potter’s green eyes seem to stare  _ into  _ him, and suddenly, so suddenly, Harry Potter looks every inch the dangerous, capable wizard that the Wizarding World  _ thinks  _ him to be, that Draco  _ knows _ him to be. 

“You don’t know that.” The words tumble out of Draco’s mouth, unchecked. His heart is racing with the enormity of what could have happened. “I could have  _ killed  _ you. Right here, on the fucking train.”

“I don’t think you’ve  _ ever  _ willingly cast the Killing Curse.”

“That’s not the point!” Draco yells. He brings his trembling hands up to his face, digs the heels of them into his eyes as his wand slides into his sleeve, and feels sick to his stomach. 

He shouldn’t have come. 

“Yes, it  _ is! _ ” Potter snaps back. “It’s the  _ whole  _ point, that you  _ never did it willingly _ . I read your confessions before the trial, Draco! You pointed your wand and you were going to curse whoever walked through that door to hurt you, but I  _ know _ that it wouldn’t have been the Killing Curse. And if you had known it was me, you wouldn’t have raised your wand to begin with!” He’s speaking with that righteous indignation that he’s always had, the certainty that he’s right beyond a shadow of a doubt, how could anyone dare think otherwise.

Draco drops his hands from his eyes, finally opens them to meet that furiously earnest gaze with his own. “You have an  _ astounding _ amount of confidence for someone sitting within hexing range of a Death Eater,” is what he manages.

Potter blows out a frustrated breath. “Ex-Death Eater,” he says, and then repeats, “You’re not my enemy, Draco.”

“I’ve  _ always _ been your enemy.” Draco tries to summon some righteous anger himself, but he can feel himself giving in. Potter has this inherent desire to save people, and, though Draco’s not sure he  _ can _ be saved, who is he to stop Potter from trying? 

“At one point, you wanted to be my friend.”

A hand outstretched, that Potter didn’t take. Draco’s pride doesn’t sting at it, anymore, but it did for a long, long time. He’s wondered before - in the dark nights at the Manor, in the quiet of his own head - what would have happened if Potter  _ had _ taken his hand. Would he have died, led like a lamb to slaughter? Would he have fallen to the Dark as well? Would he have brought Draco into the light instead?

“Yes, well, I can’t be faulted for poor taste at the tender age of eleven,” he says. There’s no malice, and Draco’s voice shakes. It’s a return to normal, a desperate bid to leave the gravity of the conversation behind, and Draco has always cloaked himself in scathing words, used them like a shield whenever he could.

Potter nods. He lifts a hand to push his glasses up his nose, absentminded, as he glances away from Draco and out the window once more, watching the landscape go by. 

“I’m not a Gryffindor, Potter,” Draco finds himself saying when the silence stretches on too long. “I’m not daring or - or courageous, or any of those noble traits you lot are so fond of. I’m a Slytherin, we’re -”

“Resourceful, ambitious, and cunning, I know,” Potter says, and doesn’t look away from the window. “The Hat tried to put me there. It doesn’t matter, I don’t think the Houses define who you’re going to be or who your friends should be. I used to, but we were all a little stupid then.” 

“The Hat tried to put you in Slytherin,” Draco repeats, deadpan. 

Potter does look at him then. “And Wormtail was a Gryffindor, remember?”

“Yes, alright, I see your point.” Draco sighs. This can’t end well, but Merlin, Draco wants to reach his hand out again, see if Harry will take it this time. “I suppose if you’re that desperate for friends, I seem to be lacking.”

That grin, again, aimed at Draco once more. Just as blinding, just as world-shattering. This time when Potter turns to look out the window, Draco looks as well.

“I  _ do _ know more spells,” Potter finally says, and Draco, Merlin help him, can hear the smile in his voice without even looking. “I just happen to be  _ really  _ good at that one.”

“And I’m  _ really _ good at the Tickling Hex,” Draco replies. He is, actually, strangest thing. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to try using it against a Death Eater’s Cruciatus. Because that would be moronic.”

Potter snorts. “Hermione told me you’d keep me humble. I’m glad you aren’t going to pull your punches, though, even if we’re going to be friends.”

There’s a clatter outside the compartment, feet rushing by and the giggles of girls who can’t be older than Third Year. It covers the sound of the admission Draco doesn’t mean to let slip, and he’s grateful that Potter doesn’t hear.

“I think that’s all I ever wanted.”


End file.
